


The Providence of Summer Thunder

by Rednaelo



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Shotacon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Rednaelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little boys should know better than to run away from home.  Who knows what might happen to them….</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Providence of Summer Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This ended up being a lot longer than I had originally planned.  And, god, I hope it's good, because I can only see all the places where it sucks, as usual.  Um, but, this is a gift for [Sasha](http://aradia-megid0pe.tumblr.com/) and [EJ](http://sutekistriders.tumblr.com) because they're the ones who incited and encouraged me to write this story.  Yay for peer pressure! :D
> 
> I really hope you guys like it and I hope I've contributed something worthwhile to this pairing and their fans because I know how hard it is to find good fic for these two, I know, I've looked.  Thank you so much, you guys are great and I love you and I'm so happy to write this for you. <3
> 
> Happy reading.

                Surely the clan mother was going to be furious.  Ratonhnhaké:ton was sure of that the moment he had snuck from the village to explore the forest and her unknown paths.  Now that it was going on three days away from familiar territory, the boy was beginning to speculate about what punishments awaited his return home.   The thought did nothing to deter him; Ratonhnhaké:ton stood at the edge of the trees and stared out towards the colonial town with urging curiosity. 

This town was different from the one he’d bypassed earlier.  It was larger, with more open space around it where anyone could be seen walking and there was no cover of trees to facilitate Ratonhnhaké:ton’s preference of keeping his feet off the ground, particularly when he was unfamiliar with the landscape.  In the distance, there were many tall buildings.  As tall as any tree, made of stone and lumber.  If he could find the footholds, Ratonhnhaké:ton could find a way out of sight to explore.  His heart buzzed eagerly with the prospect: excited and uneasy.

The boy’s teeth ground gently against each other as he stared towards his destination.  He was eager, yes, but not foolish—though others might’ve disagreed.  That town was a colonial settlement, full of people who could pick him out of a crowd like the moon amongst the stars.  He remembered his mother telling him about the times she spent in the company of the colonials and how they seemed to forget to ignore her like they did with everyone else they encountered in their day-to-day.  The last thing Ratonhnhaké:ton wanted was a bunch of intruding questions about who he was and why he was there, much less what he was doing running about the rooftops, which he was sure to do. 

So he decided to wait.  In the middle of the afternoon, surely someone was bound to notice him.  But if he waited for the darkness and walked along the beach instead of trying to sneak through the fort, it would be easier to slip into the town without drawing attention to himself.  Provided he could dodge the soldiers on their night patrols, and he was confident that he could.  All of those weapons and heavy coats would prove deterrent against his light feet.

Resolved, Ratonhnhaké:ton turned away from the clearing and retreated into the woods to catch his dinner and pass the time until nightfall.

-Ʌ-

“They’re restless now, and I can assure you that if things don’t change within the year, everything is going to come to fruition as rioting in the streets; it’s simply inevitable.”

Haytham leaned back in the armchair, giving Charles a moment to think as he considered the open window of study and its view into the summer’s dusk.  The room itself was left unlit, the stove’s heat unwelcome on the particularly hot August evening, leaving only the flicker of a few lamps to highlight his companion’s furrowed features.

“If that’s the case then we need to begin assembling our plan accordingly,” Lee finally decided.  “I can gather the others by tomorrow if you’d like to start as soon as possible.”

“Ordinarily, I’d encourage swift action,” Haytham agreed, “But we’re a season too early.  For now, I’d like to concentrate on amassing our resources; there is still a ways to go and we can’t afford to be unprepared.”

“Of course.”

“I’m for New York in the morning.  I trust you can take care of things here?”

“Absolutely, Sir.”

“Excellent.  We’ll regroup at the end of the month and work from there.”  Haytham gave Charles a firm handshake as they stood and then walked to the door.

“Be safe in your travels,” Lee bade him as he descended the stairs.

“Your wishes are wasted, but appreciated,” Haytham returned, a hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.  Charles gave a short laugh, then donned his jacket and departed.

Haytham stood in the dark stairwell, allowing himself a moment to rest against the doorframe.  The tension had been mounting in the colonies for a few months since the instatement of the Townshend Acts, with Boston being the sore spot for dissent among the general populace.  Haytham had kept his eyes about the town ever since the seizure of Hancock’s trade ship and the resulting fiasco that followed it.  The people were just itching for another riot and the line to breech their collective patience seemed thin as silk.

But, despite the ever-twisting coil that was the people’s fury, it had yet to spring and the quiet was starting to make Haytham anxious.  Not at all nervous; there was no situation he could not handle.  Haytham could boast patience for endless hours but not when there was something to be done.  So he had kept himself busy with monitoring the smuggling routes and keeping an ear close to the black market but it could only occupy him for so long.  The people were hoarding glass and tea, for God’s sake, not an arsenal.

No, the arsenal was already tucked safely away for himself, steadily building for the days when it would be needed.  It wouldn’t be long, Haytham reasoned.  He could taste in in the air, like the salt-tinged breezes from the bay brought on by the English’s schooners and their new proclamations of even more taxes.  The fuse was already burning….

Haytham sighed softly and turned back to the study, aiming to lock the window before turning in for the night.  He wanted to leave for New York before dawn and the awakening of the rest of the city: its noise and traffic and general bustling that he was growing weary of.  He found himself stuck at the armchair, though.  The promise of its familiar comfort inviting to his tired bones.  So he sank into it, unbuttoning his shirt as he stared towards the window. 

The Grand Master toyed with the idea of falling asleep right there.  The air circulation was certainly better up on the second floor and the east-facing windows of the study were catching a nice wind from the harbor and an oncoming storm.  Surely there would be rain later and it would be wiser to shut the windows and keep the floors from damp.  But Haytham bargained that falling asleep there would be the least endangering risk he’d taken in the past decade of his life. 

He closed his eyes.  The cooler winds rolled in and pushed another sigh from Haytham’s lips.  In the twisting limbo between sleep and awake, Haytham pulled his thoughts along old memories, intending to call back the once-upon-a-time serenity he had kept.  Its face was Ziio’s and she was smiling at him.  Somewhere far away from all the madness of his own life, she was living her own.  By this point, she had probably found a husband within her village and mothered some child who no doubt was as lovely as she. 

Haytham’s heart withered at the thought, but only for a moment.  The circling regrets of wondering what could’ve been threatened to fill him up once more.  But he tore through them quietly, knowing that their loss of contact was what she wanted and he knew, somewhere, she was alive and happy.  It was enough to keep the ache at bay.

Thunder growled softly in the distance.  Haytham sank deeper into the chair.  And when the gentle gusts tumbled through the window and shifted through his hair, he pretended they were thin fingertips carding through, and a tribal lullaby echoed somewhere out of memory.

-Ʌ-

Ratonhnhaké:ton should’ve expected the rain.  But by the time it became apparent that the thunder was more than just an empty promise, he had already crept into town and the darkness had settled.  And now, under the downpour, Ratonhnhaké:ton was essentially trapped.  He had no idea where he could find shelter and not get in trouble for it. 

All doors and windows shut, lamps put out and streets empty, save for the occasional guard standing loyal at his post.  Even if he had options, the boy couldn’t discern them.  So he crouched behind an empty fruit stand in the harbor market and scanned the area for a place to run to.  The ramshackle roof wasn’t doing anything to keep him dry from the rain slanting down on him.  Behind him, the ships rocked and leaned in the waves while lightning snatched wicked white fingers into the ocean, searching for handfuls of life and roaring in anger whenever it was unsuccessful. 

Young eyes strained, searching for any sign of light.  His heart jolted when he spotted a glow, far in the distance.  Without thinking, he ran for it, swept along by the torrent and the hope of sanctuary.  It might’ve just been something he imagined, he considered latently, though still his feet pounded forward.  Or perhaps it was only a lamp in the church tower.  But if he could find a way in, Ratonhnhaké:ton was going to stay.

He weaved through the streets, slipping through mud only once, but the fall was hard enough to make him see stars and when he got to his feet, there was a twinge in his knee.  None of these things deterred his pursuit of possible shelter and when he reached the source, relief flooded through him. 

What he’d seen was a street lamp.  But it was a street lamp that stood before a large house and on its second story, there was a window wide open, despite the rain.  Inside was dark and Ratonhnhaké:ton took it as a sign of vacancy. 

There probably wasn’t anyone home.  They must’ve just forgotten to latch the before they left window and the storm blustered it open. 

Like it was chasing him, the angry winds pushed against the boy’s shoulders and it was all he needed to vault the fence and begin scaling the wall.  The ache in his knee did little to hinder the strength of his determination and within twenty seconds—despite the slippery shutters—Ratonhnhaké:ton had jumped through the window with a low grunt.

Then he froze.  Because he was wrong.

The house was not empty; the room itself was already hosting someone else.  A man was sitting in the armchair.  But he was still as a corpse, eyes closed.  After realizing that he’d yet to be caught, Ratonhnhaké:ton let himself exhale and began to consider his situation. 

The storm outside was loud enough to startle people from sleep, yet here this man was, with his windows open and his floor soaked, oblivious to it all. Soberly, the boy wondered if the man was actually dead and then couldn’t decide if it would be fortuitous or horrible if that were the case.

From where he stood—separated by space and shadow—Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn’t see any swell of breath or hear it over the downpour.  Cautiously, he took a step forward.  The floor did not so much as whisper to give him away and his mud-sodden moccasins shifted his weight effortlessly forward until he was close enough to see the man properly, but not enough to drip on him.

The man was sleeping.  So deep and soundly that the present calamity didn’t raise so much as a stir from him.  He was either very weary or without any fear.  Or perhaps he was a fool.  Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t need to know the answer.  He was preoccupied with searching the weathered features of the man’s face.  He was old, but not at all unhealthy.  In his sleep, the man breathed quietly and with ease despite the clinging damp at his unbuttoned shirt.

With a combination of curiosity and bravery only a child could possess, Ratonhnhaké:ton reached his fingers out to the white cotton, taking the tiniest grip of it.  Soft and well-worn….  A damp index finger traced along the stitching at the collar, wavering between cautious contact and meeting only the air.  He dared not even breathe.  The lace cuff at the man’s wrist proved to be the most fascinating distraction and it shifted his focus enough that he didn’t notice steely eyes staring right into him like knifepoints in his flesh.

-Ʌ-

It might’ve been on account of weariness along with a dampened sense of vigilance, but Haytham only watched the boy and did nothing to alert him to the fact.  Gaining more cognizance,  Haytham could see that the child bore no weapon—at least, none in his hand—and was absolutely drenched in mud and water, which was enough to cause protest when he put his fingers on Haytham’s clothes.

The Grand Master turned his hand and snagged the boy’s wrist, causing a gasp and a recoil, which was only effective within Haytham’s reach.  Dark eyes stared wide and the free hand jittered towards the small hunting knife tucked at his belt.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Haytham said gently.  If the child understood, the words certainly did nothing to ease him.  “I promise.”  In the shadows and darkness, with eyes adjusting, Haytham could barely make out the features of the young one he’d captured.  Lightning flashed from the window: Haytham caught black hair, sharp cheekbones, a glimpse of dark skin and young teenager’s body wrapped in soaked hides.  It was enough to make the man’s heart flutter with familiarity.

“Can you understand me?” Haytham asked, a sense of urgent curiosity pushing the question out.  “You don’t have to speak.  Nod your head if you can.”

“I can.”

Haytham’s eyebrow flicked upward for a split second.  He hadn’t expected words, and certainly not ones spoken with such a defiant tone to them.  Still, he did nothing to ease his grip and stared into the boy’s eyes as surely as ever.

“You climbed in through the window?” Haytham asked.

“I did.”

“Impressive.  I don’t know many people who could’ve done so.  Particularly when nature conspires against them.”

“Let go of me.”

“I don’t think so.  You’re breaking and entering and if I let you go now, you’ll just run away.”  Haytham got to his feet, his full height overshadowing the child by at least half a meter.  Even so, the boy glared back with eyes as hard as iron; the highlights of the lightning called forth only the barest glimpse of brown from them.

“I have not broken anything,” the child argued.

“Why did you climb through my window?”  Haytham asked, choosing to ignore the boy’s claim.  “Surely there are more sensible things to do at this hour, in such conditions.”

Defiantly, the boy remained silent.  Haytham didn’t extend him the courtesy of his patience, hand tightening on the thin wrist.

“Answer me.”

“Let go of me.”

“If you tell me why, then I will.”

“I was trying to get out of the storm.”

“Why didn’t you just go home?”

“My home is three days from here.”

Haytham’s eyebrows lifted.  Then he _must’ve_ been from the Kanien'kehá:ka people.  They were the only identifiable tribe within the nearest region.  An impulse ran through Haytham to ask if the child knew who Ziio was, but he forgot it when he heard what could’ve only been compared to a growl coming from the lad. 

Haytham released the boy and took a step back, lifting his hands to show that he meant no harm.  In turn, the child backed towards the window again, though never taking his eyes off Haytham. 

“Will you tell me your name?” Haytham asked, hoping to keep the boy from running off since his presence alone was enough to set the Grand Master’s blood aflame with nostalgia.

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugged.  “How about this: I won’t report to anyone that you climbed in through my window and I’ll let you stay the night.”

It was enough to make the child cease in his retreat.  Apparently, any possibility of shelter was better than solitude in the rain, understandably.  Still, there was no agreement to the proposal and Haytham’s excited pulse begged him to do more than stand there and anticipate.  Without waiting for an answer, he crossed over to the other side of the room—the boy backing away and circling around him the whole time so as not to become trapped, as he might’ve feared—and shut the window, hushing the storm only marginally before drawing the curtains and moving towards the desk for a flint to light the nearby oil lamp.

-Ʌ-

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood behind the armchair the man had vacated and watched him with the diligence of an eagle on a hare.  Though the man had made no other move to touch him, he’d effectively closed off Ratonhnhake:ton’s only escape and it made the boy uneasy, even with the promise of a dry keep for the night.  He had still been weighing the pros and cons of the offer when his decision had more or less been made for him.  The Mohawk boy was seriously considering pulling his knife out if he had to.  He wondered if it would do him any good.

“If you still want to leave, I will guide you to the front door,” the man continued once his lamp had been lit.  “I can give you money to stay at the inn for one night, but it’s on the other side of town.  It’s your choice.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not even blink as he studied the now illuminated face of the man across from him, who stood relaxed and calm in sharp juxtaposition to the hidden chaos outside.  He didn’t trust the stranger at all but he knew he could trust the people at an inn even less.  Too many unfamiliar faces.

“I do not wish to return to the rain,” he finally said, casting his eyes aside only briefly before his gaze returned with renewed confidence.

“Then I shall put you up here,” the man settled.  He moved towards the door, lamp in tow, without another word.  Ratonhnhaké:ton followed, keeping a comfortable distance but still near enough to follow without becoming lost.  When the man entered a room down the hallway, the boy remained at the open door as he watched the man’s broad shoulders shift with purpose.  The man, now his host, rifled through a bureau, searching for something while Ratonhnhaké:ton stood clutching at the elbows of his shirt and wringing the fabric in his hands.

“I’d give you one of my dressing gowns bit I fear you’d just trip over it.”

The boy blinked, confused.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t expect me to put you to bed in wet clothes,” the man said, pulling a white shirt from the drawer and placing at the foot of the four-poster bed nearby.  “You’ll catch your death.  And then I’d be at the spiteful end of your mother’s vengeance.”  Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed his lips together and mentioned nothing of his mother’s death.  “I said I’d take responsibility for you this evening and I make it a point of keeping my word.”

“But why?” the boy asked, taking a cautious step into the room.  “I have refused to even give you my name; why are you willing to take responsibility?”

The man turned to face him and the boy felt small again.

“Feel free to call it a strange man’s whimsy.  But you could also attribute it to a sense of devotion: an act of charity for personal satisfaction.”  The man’s mouth didn’t smile but Ratonhnhaké:ton could almost see it in the shadows of his gray eyes.  “If I tell you my name, will you tell me yours?”

When the boy gave no answer, the man just waved a dismissive hand.

“Nevermind.  You can call me Haytham.  When I call you, I’ll just look into your eyes so you know I mean you and no one else.” 

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared hard into the man’s— _Haytham’s_ —eyes.  And though his heart beat wild and terrified inside his ribs, Haytham gave no pause, bidding the boy to change his clothes, then apologizing for not having any breeches that would fit him, the shirt would have to suffice.

The words barely even registered.  The boy couldn’t take his eyes off Haytham.  He walked further into the room, seeking to come closer and see every detail with determined clarity.  Haytham’s eyes were gray, but what kind of gray?  Like the clouds at the ocean’s horizon or like the edge of the tomahawk?  It was impossible to tell in such darkness and even the thunder couldn’t give the answer to the flash of storm’s light that snuck through the drawn curtains and illuminated those eyes.

“What’s the matter?”  His voice was like the ocean against the rocks on the shore and the nighttime at the end of summer.  Ratonhnhaké:ton swallowed hard.  He shook his head and forced himself to look away while Haytham asked for the wet clothes so he could dry them downstairs at the fireplace.   The boy nodded and pulled the shirt off his back, holding it out for Haytham to take.  “Hurry along, before the chill sticks to you.”

Clumsily, the boy pulled Haytham’s shirt over his head and then undid this belt, keeping his hunting knife close to his chest, but offering his mud-stained pants to Haytham’s still-outstretched hand.

“That’s better,” Haytham said.  "The quilt is warm; get into the bed.  I’ll return shortly.”

Then he left.  Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t move an inch. 

Haytham…. He had known that name long before this strange encounter amidst the storm.  It was a word he’d turn over in his thoughts and try to fit meaning to.  But it wasn’t as heavy as words like ‘home’ or ‘friends’ or ‘mother.’  It had no push to his heart because there was nothing behind it but emptiness: no face or presence, just an assurance that ‘Haytham’ was also ‘father.’

But now, he had him.  ‘Haytham’ was more than a word.  Haytham existed in the world with a voice that commanded attention and movements that couldn’t be ignored.  Haytham walked among the people of the earth and breathed the same air they all did.  Haytham was damp from the rain and smelled like the sunshine soaked into his skin and the cedar clinging to his clothes from the chest where they’d once hidden: all _his_ possessions.  Haytham, who slept through thunder but could wake in an instant at a child’s touch and who acted in ‘whimsy’ and ‘devotion.’  Haytham was a man who feared a mother’s wrath: a mother he’d known, but not as a mother.

Ratonhnhaké:ton suddenly wanted to find him again, to follow and be near.  But the desire was snuffed by the chill on his legs and how he steadily came to realize he was gripping his own arms too tightly.  And before he could unbind himself, Haytham returned, bearing bread and a bottle.

-Ʌ-

“You haven’t moved; are you hurt?”

Haytham put down his armful on the nightstand and went to the child’s side, kneeling to get a better scope of him in entirety.

“Not much.”  The words came tumbling out of the boy’s mouth after catching awkwardly on his teeth, like he hadn’t quite commanded them in the way he’d wanted.  When Haytham caught his eyes, they were darting frantically about Haytham’s face, as if searching for the places where displeasure might show.

“Where?” Haytham asked, hands coming to rest gently at the young shoulders.

“M-my knee.” 

“Here?”  Haytham touched a careful finger to the boy’s left knee, noticing the way he was favoring it in his stance.  He received only a nod in affirmation, after which he rose to his feet once again.  Strong arms swept the boy up without warning, earning a startled outcry, which quickly hushed beneath another peal of thunder.  Haytham laid the child on the bed and then gathered the quilt around him, making sure he was bundled up before going to the bottle of sherry he had brought up with him and pouring a generous amount into the glass he’d kept permanently at his bedside.

“Drink this,” he said, holding the glass out to the boy.  “It’ll help you sleep.”

The boy only looked at him skeptically, still a little startled from the sudden movement, no doubt.  So Haytham sighed a little and lifted the glass to his own lips, taking a sip to demonstrate that he wasn’t doling out poison and then tried the offering again. 

“Thank you,” the boy mumbled, receiving.

“Are you hungry?” Haytham asked.

“No.”

Haytham nodded and sat down at the end of the bed, staring towards the window and wondering at the storm and the disruption that was wrapped up in his own blankets.  The boy was at that graceless stage between youth and adulthood, and it showed in the way his waist was still thin but his long legs were developing muscle, his face unable to settle between supple and definite.  His voice was soft and mellow, even when hostile, and his eyes had a depth to them that went beyond what short time they’d been open to the world.

An ineloquent man would’ve called the boy beautiful.  Haytham knew it was much more than that.  The child was untamed.  He was like Ziio: he was independent and passionate, unformed and unpredictable.  Not just physically lovely—despite his limbo of change—but possessing a quality that could not be bred or learned.  The boy was mystifying.  Deeper whims in Haytham urged him to keep the child.  To adopt him and steal him away from the wilderness where he could easily become lost to Haytham.  But the wiser man within him knew he obviously couldn’t do it.  Keeping him would destroy the very magnificence he sought to capture.

Terrible, fleeting beauty….  It only made Haytham want to possess him more.  He kept the strange desire quiet and locked up, only watching the child harmlessly when the storm and his own thoughts were no longer enough to occupy him.  The boy watched him right back, gaze halfway between suspicious and soft.  When he drank, it was deeply and Haytham kept back a smile.

“I knew a woman once,” he found himself saying, feeling maudlin and willing to share his tragedy with a somehow familiar stranger.  “She was a native, like you.  We were lovers.  But now it’s just a memory to weary me in my solitude.”    Haytham swept his eyes over the boy’s face, the young features dark and attractive in the shadows.  “Seeing you reminds me of her; her memory only drives me to seek peace in my life.”

The boy had no comment to give, not that Haytham was expecting any of him.  But he emptied the cup in the time Haytham finished his retelling of when he and Ziio had prevented Braddock from overtaking the native lands and at that point, the dark gaze on him was intent and enraptured with the tale. 

Outside, the thunder was softening, like the boy’s awareness, though Haytham was sure the storm wasn’t plied with any amount of alcohol.  He gently pulled the empty vessel from those young and calloused hands and pushed his fingers against sagging shoulders until the boy collapsed against the nest of pillows.  When he sighed, it was a sound that made Haytham pause on his way from the room.

There was no way he could sleep in his house when it was occupied by a stranger, even if that stranger was an inebriated youth armed with naught but a hunting knife.  Haytham didn’t want to leave the boy’s side, though.  Watching him burrow into the quilt with his eyelashes touching those bronze cheeks and his black hair all mussed against the pillows….  He didn’t even want the child to be out of his sight.  Unwilling or unable to identify his desire as anything but reasonable, Haytham set the glass down and returned to the bed, gathering the boy in his arms and taking the mattress’s place as the boy’s cradle.  And though the shift stirred consciousness in those dark, brown eyes, it was only a brief moment before Haytham felt the barest skip of warm exhales against his chest and fingers curling into his shirt.

Act on impulse, rewarded tenfold: it was all he could think of as he wrapped his arms around those smaller shoulders and dared to breathe in deeply.  Of course, he’d known the risk of attempting such an audacious move but with the results garnered, Haytham couldn’t find anything in himself that regretted.  He closed his eyes, tilted his head forward and pressed a small kiss to the boy’s crown.  Too beautiful to not hold onto for as long as he could….  In the morning, he’d be gone and the memory would find its place next to the others.    But not now.

The voice of reason poked and prodded at Haytham’s intentions and scolded him for acting ridiculous but it was a voice that went largely ignored, for Haytham found himself feeling more contented than he had in years.  All people seemed to end up as body counts or numbers to compare militia strength but not this boy.  And, no, he couldn’t rationalize why _this boy_ was the one out of the entire world who mattered.  Haytham could make conjectures on familiarity and nostalgia and even fetishism but ultimately, it meant nothing.  The boy was precious; Haytham wanted to hold him.

While he slept, Haytham kissed his hair, over and over, and stroked a gentle hand up and down his back.

-Ʌ-

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke after an hour or so when Haytham’s tenderly circling fingertips at the base of his spine drew him back to sluggish consciousness.  He lifted his head and blinked slowly, trying to distinguish shapes in the darkness.  Outside, there was only the soothing hush of the calming rain and beneath him, Haytham’s breath almost seemed to push into his own lungs with their harmonious echo.  Haytham was so warm, and his fingers against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s spine were pleasant in their caress.  He blinked again and found Haytham’s eyes looking down at him, the bare blue flame of the lamp lighting only the shapes of his father’s face, which warranted him to lean in a bit more to try and recognize the features in the dark.

Before his awareness could even focus, there was a steady hand beneath his jaw and lips against his own.  A gasp pulled through the boy’s nose and then locked itself in his chest, making his pulse panic and his body seize in an unfamiliar way.  But Haytham’s lips retreated then advanced once more, again, and then again, finding a different seam of Ratonhnhaké:ton’s mouth to capture at every moment until finally the boy found himself giving back.  His sigh let itself run out and his lips wrapped around Haytham’s bottom lip; strong arms held him tighter, answering with a brief groan.

When he pulled back, mouth opening for air, it was intruded upon and Haytham’s tongue slipped between his teeth to beckon against the roof of the boy’s mouth.  The noise Ratonhnhaké:ton made was unbelievably broken and desperate: startled.  And it gave way to the heat rising in his cheeks, how the blanket was suddenly unbearably wound around his body and the awareness of Haytham’s thigh, pressing up between his naked legs.

He could smell Haytham’s breath and taste it with his own tongue while it swayed sloppily against Haytham’s, their chests pushed together by the man’s grasping hands at Ratonhnhaké:ton’s back.  The boy didn’t know what to do with his hands, much like he didn’t know what to do with the rest of himself.  Addled, he simply held tight to Haytham and reacted without any amount of consideration, save for dwelling on the heat that burned beneath his skin wherever Haytham touched him.

The kiss made his mind reel and with each passing second and every tease of Haytham’s tongue, Ratonhnhaké:ton could no longer distinguish between his body and Haytham’s; the breath and heartbeats in chaotic combination.

Haytham broke the kiss but stayed near, his fingers sweeping along the boy’s face as he watched him closely.  In every vein, Ratonhnhaké:ton’s pulse trembled and he shivered on Haytham’s lap as if he were snuggled into the snow instead of at the cusp of a sudden fever.  Haytham kissed him again, brief and sincerely.

“Shall I stop?” he murmured against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s cheek, making the boy’s breath hitch in his chest.  “Or may I continue?”

The emotion that bubbled up in him was unrecognizable, but the nearest thing the boy had felt to it was fear.  Strange excitement and unfamiliar sensations and then the collapsing center in him that inherently understood that Haytham was still ‘father’ and their entanglement was pushing boundaries on too many fronts…. More than that, Ratonhnhaké:ton was afraid of losing everything that he’d unexpectedly found that night.  Haytham’s hold and his touch were too potent to the boy’s starved heart.  He feared the return of the loneliness that had been clinging at his ankles for seven years.

“What will you do?” his quivering voice whispered while his fingers unconsciously wound and worried into the shirt at Haytham’s back.

“Nothing to hurt you.”  Haytham’s breath filled the boy’s ear and his tongue touched to the tender flesh at the still soft jawline.  Ratonhnhaké:ton took an unsteady breath and pressed himself close.  It was his only anchor as Haytham shifted and guided the boy onto his back.  He stared up at his father, searching his face and eyes to try and find the answer to some question he didn’t know how to ask.  Strands of Haytham’s hair had come loose from his ponytail and his gray eyes were alight with an electricity that Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn’t noticed before.  But soon, he couldn’t see anything except the ceiling as Haytham dipped out of view to wet his neck and shoulders with kisses.  Instead, he focused on those gentle touches and the feel of strong hands smoothing down his sides and hips.

A teasing shift of fabric trailed along Ratonhnhaké:ton’s stomach as Haytham pushed the shirt up and almost bared him in entirety.  His abdomen tensed with the sudden chill and pain needled through him, making his eyes clench shut and his hands withdraw to press at the places where his anxiousness met horribly with his body’s sudden oversensitivity.  He groaned and turned away.

“Oh, oh, shh-shh-shh-shhhh,” Haytham coddled, threading his fingers through the boy’s hair.  “It’s alright…it’s alright, darling, just breathe deep.  There now….”  Every kiss against his face, his chin, his neck…Ratonhnhaké:ton counted them each to try and calm himself.  Haytham’s hand swept under his jaw to turn his head; his gaze was heavy with the kind of attention Ratonhnhaké:ton only barely remembered seeing in his mother’s eyes. 

“Forgive me,” Haytham said, a sober darkness settling in his face.  “It was never my intention to cause you pain, inadvertently or otherwise; you must believe me.”

Despite his trembling, the boy commanded himself to relax.  He swallowed and inhaled slowly before uncurling  his body and laying out, exposed, with the shirt Haytham gave him bunched up to his collarbone and his hands reaching out to hold Haytham’s face.  At his touch, his father closed his eyes gently and took the boy’s hands in his own, pressing his nose to the thin flesh at Ratonhnhaké:ton’s wrist and kissing softly.

“Go on,” the boy said, curling his fingers against Haytham’s jaw as he tried to steady his tremors.  “I am not hurt.  You do not have to stop.”

Haytham opened his eyes again and looked down at him as he pushed Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hands into the bed, leaning in for another heated kiss.  That time, the boy openly invited Haytham in and when their tongues met and slid against each other, Ratonhnhaké:ton let an unbidden moan ease out from his throat, hips arching up ever so, the ties of Haytham’s breeches  just grazing the sensitive curve of his erection.

-Ʌ-

The Grand Master’s impassioned desire for the boy beneath him had consumed him to the extent that one could’ve pierced his flesh and found fire dripping from his veins instead of blood.  His heart and mind were dizzy with the heady prospect of capturing him, not by imprisonment but by impression.  He’d already agreed with himself that it would do no good to steal the boy away.  But when he cradled that child in sleep and then watched him wake, the impulse to steal a kiss from him won over moral objections and unknown consequences.  And he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more.  It was latently—in the moment when Haytham pinned the boy’s hands down to the mattress and laved his tongue over the dark flesh of his nipple, listening to him gasp and feeling narrow hips jolt beneath his own—that he understood that this moment would never be forgotten.  Not by either of them.  The realization was intoxicating.

Even in that moment, Haytham knew that this unpredicted night in August would linger in his thoughts for the rest of his days.  But that truth was only a quiet hum beneath the music that was the boy’s breath, his moans, his heartbeat and how his presence crowded out every thought in Haytham’s mind.

His hands released those damp palms and gripped softly at the boy’s waist, following after with kisses down his stomach and against the angles of hip bones.  To keep his lips away from him was anguish and though Haytham paused just to stare at the lithe and lovely lines of the body beneath him, he couldn’t gaze long without succumbing to the lure of such an exquisite sight.  The boy’s hands held tightly to Haytham’s shoulders while Haytham grasped at his thighs and eased them apart.  Only for a moment, only to uncover the parts that had been hidden from him. 

The boy stared up, panting, with his eyes dark and glittering and Haytham could practically feel the bronze and shadowed skin flushing as he returned the look, focusing unabashedly on the boy’s twitching erection.  He forgot to keep himself in check and, quietly, the word, “Stunning,” fell from Haytham’s tongue as he leaned and kissed the very underside of its curve; the boy cried out from behind bitten lips.  One, two, three more kisses to the inside of the boy’s thigh and then Haytham pulled away, letting him rest.

Without unnecessary fuss or fumbling, Haytham undid the ties on his breeches and loosened them just enough so he could pull himself out.  What surprised him was how the boy almost instantly sat up and reached out , touching careful fingertips to the head of Haytham’s cock as he pumped it a few times.

“There’s no need for you to do that,” Haytham told the boy gently.  But there was no sign of ceasing in the boy’s attentions and he gave no retort to combat Haytham’s words.  So Haytham just gathered him up and kissed his face since he couldn’t think to do anything else.

“Hold onto me, now,” he said gently.  “Put your knees together…there’s a good lad.”   The boy shuddered again but wrapped his arms firmly around Haytham’s chest to steady himself and as Haytham  guided himself between those supple thighs, he could feel the cautious press of baby kisses at his neck.  The Grand Master smiled against the sweaty black locks and kept his hands firmly at the curve of the boy’s rear while his hips pushed forward.

In the dark, with the two of them so close and the slide of skin on velvety skin, the sheer heat of the summer midnight and burning nerves scraping against each other, there was a complete disconnect to past and future.  Haytham would sometimes noticed the bump of the boy’s erection against his stomach and then focus again on the silk pressure of those thighs squeezing him, the stroke of softest skin with a warmth unlike any other.  The boy keened and grunted gently with every push, blunted nails digging hard into Haytham’s shoulders.  And then Haytham caught the nape of his neck, bending him back to ease his tongue between those full lips and drink deep of him.  The moans between them were eerily harmonious and Haytham just relished in the sound, the vibration of it that resonated from chest to chest.  He took a firmer grip on the boy’s hips and rocked against him with exhilarated vigor.

Between a broken kiss, the boy cried out a word, his voiced breathless and cracked.  Some word in his native tongue, Haytham figured, but it prompted a seize of muscles and desperate exhales, ejaculate spraying against them both.  Haytham just watched the boy’s face as he fell apart, the sight of it almost too much to bear.

The boy managed to keep himself upright but his legs trembled fiercely as his breath rattled in every exhale.  Haytham took a moment to coax him down to the bed, curled up on his side and then wrapped around him, pushing back into that sweet spot between the boy’s thighs.  He whispered into the boy’s ear, telling him sweet nothings of adoration as his fingers teased gently along the stains on that dark skin down to where their bodies met.  The boy was still hard, whimpering at every thrust forward and Haytham’s added touches only made him more vocal.

Young fingers joined with Haytham’s, stroking at his cock whenever it pushed through the tight space between the boy’s legs.  And like that they stayed, hips cradling and grinding with their legs tangled and the constant press of Haytham’s kisses against soft, cinnamon colored flesh. 

“H-Haytham,” the boy moaned, turning his head to seek out Haytham’s kiss.  And, oh, the Grand Master wished he could answer with the child’s own name, to show that he was just as enchanted, just as captivated.  Instead, he just let the kiss call the boy’s name for him, breaking it to look straight into those dark and hazy eyes.

“I’m here,” he murmured in promise.  “I have you.”  Those lips were so wet, sweat dripping in lines down neck and shoulders, just mapping the places where Haytham could follow with his tongue.  He wrapped a hand around the boy’s throat and tilted his head back, squeezing only a little, enough to bid that mouth to fall open and actively seek every inhale.  Haytham’s hips snapped forward, over and over, his groans muffled beneath the boy’s cries.

At the edge of his sanity and control, Haytham locked that boy against himself, tightly as he could with his face buried in shaking shoulders, muscles convulsing with every breath escaping him.  His eyes had shut, and he fell hard from the high that had dazed him so.  Regaining himself, Haytham  steadily eased his hold and let the boy go.  Without any word, he pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed, tucking himself away and discarding his semen-stained shirt after using it to clean his soiled hand.

The bed shifted with the sound of the boy sitting up and as Haytham moved about the room, he could just feel those eyes on him, asking silent questions that were full of unspoken fear.  But Haytham didn’t leave.  He soaked a rag with water from the wash basin and went back to the bed.  The subtle but not unnoticed sag in the boy’s shoulders and the way the line of his frown softened at Haytham’s return: Haytham was falling in love at the sight of how he had been so unexpectedly coveted.  The boy lay against the pillow and Haytham gently cleaned him off, wiping away sweat and saliva and residual smears from the both of them, leaning in to kiss every time the desire tugged at him.  His tongue tasted along those sweet lips and his nose bumped against cheek and jaw affectionately.

“You’re so lovely,” he whispered when the rag was finally put aside, wrapping the boy in blankets once again and pulling him into his arms.  “Perfect child….”  Another nuzzle and Haytham took a deep breath, letting sleep pull him while the ghosts of soft kisses tickled his throat.

-Ʌ-

 “Master Kenway?”

Haytham bolted upright, staring daggers at the door way with his arm flexing to protect his boy from whoever had decided to intrude.  But his arms were empty.  His only reaction was a quick glance around the room to assess.  The window was open; the borrowed shirt lay near the pillow.  Gone.

“It’s nearly dawn, Sir,” the coachman said, wringing his hands nervously.

“Yes, I am aware,” Haytham huffed.  “Please return to the coach.  I will join you shortly.”

“Yes, Sir.”  The door shut.  Haytham sighed, looking towards the shirt and pulling it over to himself.  It was no longer warm.  He must’ve left hours ago.  The fact didn’t surprise Haytham at all, but it still did nothing to ease the surge of longing that welled up in him.  Wild, untamed…never to be captured save for what marks could be made in a single night of sudden passion…. 

Haytham dressed in absolute silence and made a point of shutting the windows—all of them, he double-checked.  In the last second, he picked up the shirt and pressed it to his face, taking a slow inhale.  The faintness of scent wasn’t enough to substitute the mere presence of the boy.  But it was the only thing Haytham could lay claim to. 

He folded the shirt and laid it against his pillow, knowing for a fact that it would be there when he got back.  And like that, he left that night and the infatuation behind, knowing he couldn’t burden himself with it out in the world where his boy was hidden from him.  He would have to return to it when he was alone once again and wait for the day when some other happenstance would bid their paths to cross once more.

Haytham entered the coach and departed for New York, never once noticing the eyes that followed him from a hidden place, high in the trees.


End file.
